


the moon to keep me company

by glorious_spoon



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:04:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8953036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: When Illya wakes up in the hospital after a mission gone wrong, Napoleon is sleeping by his bedside.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/gifts).



He comes awake slowly, lying on a thin, hard mattress with several lumpy pillows shoved beneath his shoulders, a scratchy blanket pulled up to his chest. His head feels thick and fuzzy, and he can hear something beeping faintly in the distance. A clatter outside, and someone mutters, “ _Scheiße._ ”

Closer up is a soft, rhythmic sound that it takes him a moment to identify as snoring. Familiar snoring.

He is a hospital bed, then, and somewhere to his left, Napoleon is sleeping. His chest aches in a deep, distant way that means he’s cracked a few ribs and his hands, when he curls them against the sheets, are sore and abraded. Even so, it is far from the worst way he’s ever woken up.

Illya lies still for several minutes, taking stock of his injuries. The ribs are the worst; one ankle seems to have suffered a minor sprain, but it’s nothing that will seriously limit his mobility. His hands hurt, but he can move them easily. From the hazy strangeness of his senses, he’s been fed some kind of hallucinogenic at some point in the recent past, but it seems to be wearing off. He’s not strapped to the bed. So, yes: certainly not the worst way he’s woken up. And Napoleon is here, which does not necessarily mean they’re safe but does do away with one of his two ever-present concerns. There is, however, a nagging hole in his memory; the last thing he recalls was sniping at Napoleon over breakfast while they waited for their target to make an appearance, and after that is a large blank spot.

Something in that blank spot must explain how he came to be unconscious in a hospital where the nurses speak German. The last he remembers, they were in a Paris bistro. The uncertainty is more disturbing than the broken ribs; over the course of his career, he has on more than one occasion woken up injured and drugged in a strange place with no memory of how he came to be there. What follows is rarely pleasant.

However, he has reached the limits of what he can ascertain about his surroundings while pretending to be asleep. Cautiously, he opens his eyes.

The room is unadorned, white plaster walls spiderwebbed with fine cracks, yellow tile floor, lit by a flickering fluorescent overhead light. A single window, the blinds drawn against the night. Napoleon is sprawled in a chair beneath it, clothes and hair rumpled, fast asleep. He looks…

The thing that Illya has come to know about Napoleon is that he is rarely vulnerable, although he feigns it remarkably well when necessary. Awake, he is all bright, sharp edges, weaponized charm and a scathing wit, all cloaked in the impenetrable armor of American righteousness and finely-tailored clothing.

Asleep, Napoleon looks young.

The lines of his face are softened, his hair falling loosely across his forehead. His fine suit looks as though he wrestled a bear and then slept in it. There’s a bruise on his jaw, and the position he’s sleeping in looks very uncomfortable, as though he simply collapsed there and hasn’t moved since. His chest is rising and falling slightly with his snores. Apart from the bruise, he appears uninjured.

Illya intended to continue his inspection of the room, but somehow he remains still, staring at Napoleon, oddly fascinated. It’s only when another pair of heels goes clicking by in the hallway outside that he starts, jerks away as though he was touching something he shouldn’t have been. His elbow hits a tray on the bedside table, which clatters noisily to the floor. Illya curses under his breath, reaches for it, but it’s too late: Napoleon is stirring. He groans softly, scrunching his face up like a child, and then suddenly bolts upright, eyes wild. “Illya!”

“Cowboy,” Illya says carefully, feeling his heart thump sharply in his chest. The shot of adrenaline clears the remaining fog from his head; wide-awake now, he can see that Napoleon looks even more disheveled and exhausted than he originally thought.

Napoleon blinks at him for a long moment, then shakes his head like he’s clearing cobwebs out of it, runs a hand through his hair. It only serves to make him look more unkempt. “Oh. You’re… awake.”

This is self-evident; Illya does not answer. “What day is it?”

“Uh.” Napoleon rubs his eyes, peers at his watch. “Tuesday? I think.”

“Very helpful. Where are we? Where’s Gaby?”

“Düsseldorf. Gaby’s safe; she’s back at the hotel dealing with Waverly. Or, well, probably sleeping by now, actually. It’s been a very tiresome couple of days. What do you remember?”

“Not Düsseldorf,” Illya says. “What happened?”

“Well, it seems that our target was somewhat better prepared than we gave him credit for. He grabbed you right outside the bistro.”

Illya raises his eyebrows. “Just me?”

“Well.” Napoleon rubs his face again. “Let’s just say that you made a heroic and entirely unnecessary sacrifice to get me clear. Which, for the record, I would appreciate if you never did again. This has not been the best three days of my life.”

“You’re welcome,” Illya says, allowing himself a faint smile. “And then you tracked me down and staged daring rescue, I take it?”

“Gaby did.” Napoleon’s eyes are intent, very blue; his expression is hard to read. “I’m afraid I was rather useless. For a while, we weren’t even sure if you were still alive.”

“Oh,” Illya says, and— _oh._

Attachments, in their line of work, are generally a very bad idea. He knows this; Napoleon knows this. It’s been some time since Illya has been able to delude himself as to the nature of his own feelings, but Napoleon has never given him any reason to believe that their sporadic sexual encounters are fuelled by anything other than adrenaline and a lack of other options. “Blowing off steam,” in Napoleon’s own words.

He has been content with that. He’s had to be. Friendship is rare enough for men like him; anything else—no. Useless even to dream of.

But here is Napoleon, looking worn and exhausted and terribly vulnerable, as though his smooth mask has peeled away and left him bare, exposed to anyone who would care to look. Something warm and unexpected twists in Illya’s chest.

Napoleon clears his throat and looks away. Before he can speak, though—before he can make some light, insincere remark to cloak himself again—Illya holds out a hand.

“Come here,” he says.

“Why?”

“Must everything be argument with you, Cowboy?” Illya asks, feeling exasperated and reluctantly fond. “I have broken ribs. I am very sore. So: I stay in bed, you come here.”

Napoleon swallows visibly. “Fair enough,” he concedes.

When he stands, he’s moving stiffly—he is not entirely uninjured, although he holds himself like he’s trying to hide that. He picks his way cautiously across the room, pauses by the bed, and hesitates until Illya loses patience entirely and reaches out to yank him down.

The movement torques his chest painfully, and his injured palms twinge at the roughness of Napoleon’s sleeve, but then their mouths crash together and Illya forgets about everything else.

It’s not the first time they’ve kissed, but it feels like it. There’s no finesse in the way Napoleon kisses him now, none of his smooth, confident skill. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, the rough slide of stubble and their teeth clacking together, and when they break apart Napoleon makes a sound like a sob in the back of his throat and pushes his forehead against Illya’s hard enough to hurt.

“Peril,” he whispers.

Illya curls one hand over the solid curve of Napoleon’s shoulder, feels the way he is trembling. “Cowboy.”

“We thought you were dead.”

“I’m not dead. You came for me, you and Gaby.” Napoleon’s shoulder moves as he draws a ragged breath, and Illya grips him tighter. “This is not something many spies have, you understand?”

“I’m not a spy,” Napoleon murmurs, but there’s no real force in it. He takes another deep breath, then begins to pull back. Illya stops him with a firm grip on his shoulder.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“Chair is uncomfortable. Bed is big enough for two. Stay, and sleep, and I will not have to hear you complain about your sore back for the next three days.”

“It really isn’t big enough,” Napoleon argues, but he doesn’t try to pull away. “And your ribs are broken.”

“Pah,” Illya says dismissively. “Broken ribs. Next you will be fussing over hangnails. Stay.”

“I’m registering my disapproval of this idea,” Napoleon says after a long moment, swinging his legs around, careful—so very careful—not to jostle Illya at all. It takes him several minutes to get himself arranged so that he’s neither falling off the bed nor compressing Illya’s injured ribs; they are both large men, and the bed is really not all that big. “For the record.”

“Your disapproval is noted,” Illya tells him, letting his hand settle into Napoleon’s soft hair. His head is still spinning, and exhaustion drags at him like a weight; he’s safe here, or as safe as he ever is. Napoleon’s body is a long line of heat against his side. There’s no reason not to sleep. “Now be quiet.”

“Bossy,” Napoleon mumbles into his shoulder.

“Hush,” Illya says, and closes his eyes.

* * *

When Gaby slips into the room some time later, she’s greeted by the sound of two distinct sets of snores. She pauses by the door for a long moment, then shakes her head and laughs softly under her breath.

“You’re just lucky I wasn’t a nurse,” she murmurs, observing the way their legs tangle together, the possessive grip that Illya has—even asleep—on his companion. Napoleon is clinging to him like a little boy with a large, blond, Russian teddy bear. It’s impossible to mistake it for anything other than what it is.

Really, she should wake them up before a nurse does come in. Instead, she picks her way softly across the room and perches in the single chair.

Morning will come soon enough. For now, she’ll keep guard and let them sleep.


End file.
